Poem by Ina Donna Coolbrith

The Coming

I GATHERED flowers the summer long;
I dozed the days on sunny leas,
And wove my fancies into song,
Or dreamed in aimless ease.

Or watched, from jutting cliffs, the dyes
Of changeful waters under me,
The lazy gulls just dip and rise,
White specks upon the sea —

And far away, where blue to blue
Was wed, the ships that came and went;
And thought, O happy world! and drew
Therefrom a full content.

My mates toiled in the ripening field,
Nor paused for rest in cool or heat;
The yellow grain made haste to yield
Its harvesting complete:

My mates toiled in their pleasant homes,
They plucked the fruit from laden boughs,
And sang—"For if the Master comes
And find no ready house!" —

And far and strange their singing seemed,
And harsh the voices every one,
That woke the pleasant dream I dreamed
To thought of tasks undone.

Yet still I waited, lingered still,
Won by a cloud, a soaring lark;
Till, by-and-by, the land was chill,
And all the sky was dark.

And lo, the Master! — Through the night
My mates come forth to welcome Him:
Their labor done, their garments white,
While mine are stained and dim.

They bring to Him their golden sheaves,
To Him their finished toil belongs,
While I have but these withered leaves,
And these poor, foolish songs!

1. Copa De Oro
2. Love-Song
3. The Singer of the Sea
4. Fruitionless
5. Siesta

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